it’ll take me a minute

i’m as sick as before

i hate how he’s writing

of all my folklore

constantly slouching

and junk on the floor

i hate how he needs

such attention galore

soon to be something

but destined to doubt

i hate how i’m drinking

his life from a spout

painted roses pave the way

to lilac dreams of yesterday

a view of hills in morning gloom,

the shades i’ve craved, in rapid bloom

close to something, soon attuned

his sentiments have healed a wound